WyndRiver Sinner

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  A soft bushy coat of white fur spread down Aingeal’s body. It was thick and glossy and there was a slight undercoat of gray. Her muzzle was dainty, delicate-looking and her fangs were not as long or sharp as his. The whimpering sounds she made as she rolled her eyes and the now feeble jerks of her little paws broke the Reaper’s heart. She put one leg on his arm and looked up at him with such misery, he wished he could die.

  “I’m sorry, wench,” he said, his voice breaking. “I couldn’t lose you.” He buried his face in the ruff at her neck.

  She licked his temple where the dark blue tribal tattoo marked his flesh. Her breath was sweet like a pup’s, which surprised him.

  “I understand.”

  Slowly he lifted his head and looked into her gentle eyes. Her word thought had wrapped itself so tenderly, so lovingly around him his guilt drove deeper.

  “No, my love,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to leave you either. You did what had to be done.”

  “Forgive me,” he pleaded. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and his hand trembled as he stroked her sleek face.

  “There is nothing to forgive, Reaper,” she said, and he could hear the humor in her words. She dragged her tongue over his chin then she grinned at him, her canines glistening.

  His lips twitched in a reluctant smile. “Do you know how much I love you?” he asked.

  “Gotta pretty good guess,” she said, and shrugged herself out of his arms.

  He sat there and watched her trying out her new legs. She shook her mane, her lovely white tail, twisted her head to see that plume then glanced back at him, one perfect white brow lifting.

  “Not a bad rump I got, Reaper,” she teased. She wagged her tail then lowered her muzzle to the floor and began sniffing.

  Amazed at her reaction to what he’d done, Cynyr sat there with his back against the wall, his knees drawn up, his wrists resting on them and watched as she investigated the operatory. It didn’t surprise him in the least when she squatted in the corner and made a puddle on the floor.

  “Bad she wolf,” he admonished, but she didn’t look at all repentant.

  She padded back to him and insinuated her head under his arms, lying down beside him and putting her head in his lap. She closed her eyes as he stroked her back.

  “I’m hungry,” she admitted.

  “Aye, and you’ll need to feed,” he replied.

  “How long does this last?”

  “It varies, wench.” He scratched her behind her ear and nearly burst out laughing when her back leg drummed against the floor.

  “I see things,” she said. Opening her eyes, she lifted her head and looked at him. “I see things in your mind. Hurtful things, mo tiarna.”

  He nodded. “Then there will be no need for us to discuss them.”

  She laid her head back down and sighed. She wagged her tail once then went to sleep.

  “Lazy little she wolf,” he said with a snort. “I imagine you will expect me to hunt for you.”

  The thought of bringing Sustenance to her wiped the smile from Cynyr’s face. Then there was the matter of the tenerse. She would need that, as well, to sustain her. Such matters made him ease her head from his lap and stand up. He had work to do.

  Doris and her husband jumped when the knock sounded at the door. They looked at one another. Would a ravaging animal be so polite? they wondered.

  The healer reluctantly went to the door. “Yes?” he asked, and heard the fear in his shaking voice.

  “Let me out,” the Reaper said.

  Fumbling with the dead bolt, the healer unlocked the door and opened it. He stepped back, the look on the Reaper’s face forbidding.

  “You have a man here named Gibbs,” he stated. “Where can I find him?”

  “He has a shack up near the Pass,” the healer said, “but at this time of night, he’s most likely out raiding.”

  “He kills people,” Doris said. “Mutilates them.”

  “We haven’t been able to keep a lawman in—”

  “I know all that,” Cynyr interrupted the healer. “Just tell me how to get to the Pass.”

  “Well, you follow the river and when you hear the roar of the waterfall…”

  * * * * *

  The moon was riding high by the time Cynyr struck out for WyndRiver Pass. He hadn’t bothered finding a saddle for Storm but rode the steed bareback. His gun belt was strapped to his waist, the holster tied to his thigh, and he hadn’t wanted to expend even a modicum of energy on fashioning a shirt for himself. Concentration and immense strength were needed when facing a rogue. He couldn’t afford to be lacking in either requirement. The cool night air felt good on his bare chest, for his body temperature was going higher—a sure sign Transition wasn’t that far away.

  Ahead he could hear the roar of the waterfall. Traveling the steep canyons at night was a dangerous proposition and, for a Reaper, the river beside which he traveled made him uneasy. Running water was an anathema to his kind and he couldn’t imagine why Gibbs would want to live so close to something so precarious.

  “His shack is off to one side of the double falls,” the healer had told Cynyr. “It used to belong to old man Spencer before Gibbs killed him. I only went there once when Spencer broke his leg, and I hoped never to have to make that trek again.”

  Cottonwood trees lined the river, obscuring the Reaper’s view of the tumbling water. The sandstone walls of the canyon gave off a strange glow in the moonlight.

  “The trip down to Spencer’s shack isn’t for the faint of heart, sir,” the healer stated. “No one went up there when the old man was living and no one dares go up there now that Gibbs took it over. I would think he’ll hear you coming long before you get a glimpse of his ugly face.”

  Cynyr reined in his mount and dismounted. Tying Storm to a fallen log, the Reaper walked a rock-strewn pathway along the cliff edge. The trail dropped straight down with only toeholds chiseled into the rock to make the going easier. Passing through a narrow tunnel cut from the travertine rock, he could see the pool of water into which the waterfall fed. Two hundred feet of flowing water crashed down from the top of the canyon to splash into the pool. Neither the hundred-foot drop to the pool nor the unstable banks of the cliff bothered him. The closeness of the water did. The roar was deafening as he descended into a light mist that made the going slippery. After exiting a second tunnel blasted through the rock, the descent was less steep as it cut diagonally across the cliff. The way strewn with massive boulders, small canyons led off from the main trail, their floors lined with cactus groves and stands of mesquite.

  It was a barren place that felt sinister to the Reaper. Such places were good spots to hide from trackers and in which to set up an ambush.

  Arriving at the base of the waterfall, Cynyr could make out cottonwood and willow trees along the pool’s edge. Barrel cactus, blackbrush and prickly pear were terraced up the cliff behind a rough stone shelter he realized must be Gibbs’ abode.

  Off to one side of the waterfall, sitting on a semicircular spit of flattened rock where no water stood, the dwelling was constructed of rocks stacked atop one another. The roof appeared to be made of metal sheeting held down at the corners by good-sized boulders. No light shone from inside the structure, no sound of movement came from within its redstone walls.

  However, sniffing the air, the Reaper could smell the presence of the rogue. It was a rancid scent mixed with the odors of stale tobacco, cheap whiskey and fear. Somewhere amidst the scattered rocks and towering cactus, the killer was lying in wait.

  Sweat pouring down his naked chest, Cynyr slid his hand to the whip on his left hip. Transition was approaching and that would be to his disadvantage with the rogue. He needed the lethal lash of the laser to finish the job. Once he Transitioned, such a feat would be out of the question. He shuddered, hating the evil thing inside him more than ever.

  “Not now,” he hissed from between his teeth.

  Silus Gibbs raised his head from the boulder behind whi
ch he was hiding. In his hand he clutched a large dagger as he observed the bounty hunter standing thirty feet away. Gibbs’ weapon of choice was what he liked to call his pig sticker. Fourteen inches of tempered carbon steel, the blade had two serrated edges and tapered to a point so fine the rogue could pick his teeth with it. It shone from the loving care Gibbs gave it. Kept honed, as sharp as possible, the blade was a formidable killing tool.

  Against a Reaper, the blade was practically worthless unless Gibbs could get in behind his opponent and stab him in the lower part of his back. A risky proposition at best, the rogue preferred to hide in the hope his pursuer would go away.

  A glint of light sparked from one of the boulders and Cynyr knew he’d found his target—betrayed by the bright light of the moon overhead. From the corner of his eye, he zeroed in on that section of the canyon floor and caught just a hint of movement, another spark of light as a stray moonbeam lit upon the edge of the rogue’s weapon.

  Cynyr had no fear of his opponent. There was no doubt in his mind that he could take the bastard. At least that was true under ordinary circumstances. Transitioning in the midst of a fight would put him at a disadvantage, so the sooner he engaged Gibbs, the better.

  Gibbs’ eyes went wide in his pocked face when the Reaper spun around and ran toward him, the handle of his laser whip raised above his head, the sizzle of the laser shooting upward like a beacon. Scrambling out from behind the boulder, the rogue turned tail and ran, tossing aside his weapon as though that would stop the bounty hunter in his tracks. Stumbling into a barrel cactus, he barely noted the pain of the spines piercing his flesh. He didn’t dare look around but leapt from one flattened area of rock to another until he could go no farther, the rushing waters fed by the high waterfall barring his retreat.

  Teetering at the edge of the water—his own parasite rending him with raking claws, warning him away from the water—the rogue jerked around. The Reaper was twenty feet away from him, the laser whip handle held out behind him. Knowing full well what the deadly weapon could do, Gibbs whimpered, risking a look at the bubbling water behind him.

  “It’s over, Gibbs,” the Reaper said. The laser shot up from the end of the whip and curled backward in the air, over the bounty hunter’s shoulder.

  The only two choices Silus Gibbs had were to stand where he was and take the lash of that whip across his throat—a burning death—or fling himself into the water and drown. Either way, the end of his life was at hand. He knew it would do no good to talk to the Reaper. There were red glints in the bounty hunter’s eyes. The killing lust was upon the man sent to dispatch him. A watery death would be preferable to the sting of the lash and the searing of fire enveloping his flesh.

  Cynyr felt the first tugging on his muscles and knew he was about to change. He had to end this. He couldn’t wait. His signature side arm crack was already in motion, the laser zinging through the air as the first crack of his bones brought immediate pain. When the lash passed in front of him, he was stunned to see the rogue dive into the tumbling, roaring wash of the pool, the laser passing harmlessly over the spot where Gibbs’ head had been but a moment before.

  Already in excruciating pain, panting heavily, Cynyr stumbled to the edge of the pool and looked down, searching the heaving waters for the rogue. Even though the moonlight was bright—bearing down almost as clear as early morn—he could see nothing beneath the undulating waves. Huge boulders littered the deep stream leading away from the pool, but he could see no hand clinging to the boulders. Gibbs had disappeared between the tumbling waters.

  Dropping to the ground as his sinews stretched and his bones rearranged themselves, the Reaper hung his head between his arms. Thick fur was sprouting all over his body. Claws slipped out, toenails thickened, hardened and became sharp. The brutal pull against his jaw as it elongated, his muzzle pushing forward, his fangs descending, made him grunt with the pain. He felt himself shortening, lowering closer to the ground, and then threw his head back and howled as the transformation became complete.

  The eerie ululation reverberated through the canyon—bouncing from sandstone wall to sandstone wall. A chorus of lupine brethren from all around the waterfalls raised their voices in salute until the baying became a living thing slithering along the barren cliffs.

  * * * * *

  The healer and his wife were unnaturally quiet in the presence of the young woman who now sat primly in their sitting room. Clothed in one of Doris’ gowns, the Reaper’s woman—a Reaper now, as well—lifted the glass of tea in her hand and took a polite sip. She had been with the healer and his wife for a week now and had grown accustomed to the wary looks they sent her way. She was careful not to let them see her take the Sustenance Cyn had left for her in his absence. She smiled as the sweet taste of the tea flooded her mouth.

  “It’s been years since I had a glass of tea,” she said, savoring the flavor.

  “From what part of our beloved South do you come, ma’am?” the healer asked.

  “Flagala Territory,” Aingeal answered. “I was born and raised near a little town called Macland.”

  “We’re from the Vircars Territory” Doris stated. “Benson is our name. I am Doris and my husband is Ralph.”

  “That’s a lovely area, I’m told.”

  “Very lovely,” Doris agreed with a sigh. “I would love to have seen it before the mega tsunamis hit and the Burning War took its toll. They say it was quite spectacular.”

  “We’ve all lost something to those disasters,” the healer commented. “I think of all the medical advances, the scientific discoveries that were lost, and want to scream.” He shook his head. “What I wouldn’t give for just the knowledge available to every schoolboy back in the times before the War.”

  Doris reached out and patted her husband’s hand. “You are forgetting the library the High Council discovered when they took over the Citadel, dear, and the wondrous things the Shadowlords brought with them from their worlds.”

  “I know,” the healer said. “We have to be patient, but some things just depress me, Doris.”

  The sun was almost up, the birds were already chirping in the cottonwoods outside the Benson’s frame house.

  A knock at the door drew the eyes of the three people in the sitting room and Healer Benson got up to answer. He opened the door then stepped back to allow the Reaper inside. He ducked his head, unable to meet the bounty hunter’s expressionless eyes.

  “You are in good health, wench?” Cynyr asked.

  Aingeal stood. “I am fine, mo tiarna.”

  Passing his gaze over the healer and his wife, the Reaper thanked them for taking care of his lady. He pursed his lips as he regarded the prim and proper gown Aingeal was wearing. “You can’t ride in that thing,” he said.

  “You’re leaving today?” Doris asked, emboldened by the similarities between the Reaper and her youngest son.

  “We are due at the Citadel,” Cynyr replied, and held out his hand for Aingeal.

  Taking one last sip of the sweet tea, Aingeal handed the glass to Doris and thanked her for her hospitality. She smiled at the healer then walked to her husband, slipping her hand into his.

  Cynyr’s grip tightened around Aingeal’s smaller hand and he turned for the door. He had no use for small talk and hoped by his brusque manner, the Bensons would take the hint. Thanks had been given and that should suffice.

  “Why were you so short with them, Cyn?” Aingeal asked as he led her toward their horse.

  “He could have helped but he refused,” the Reaper snapped. “I won’t forget or forgive that.” He swept his hand down Aingeal’s body—the ugly, plain gown disappeared and was replaced with a white shirt and dark blue denim jeans. The soft slippers became a sturdy pair of leather boots.

  Aingeal didn’t get a chance to rebut his statement for he reached down, swung her up in his arms and lifted her onto Storm’s back. She could feel her husband’s irritation but wisely refrained from trying out her fledgling psychic abilities in an attempt
to read his mind.

  “We’ll go back to the campsite and pick up your horse and my saddle and—”

  “Brownie,” Aingeal reminded him of her horse’s name.

  “Aye, Brownie,” he said, his jaw tight.

  “All right, Reaper,” she said, twisting around to face him as he pulled himself onto Storm’s back. “What’s eating you?”

  “I am in pain, wench, and you will be too if I don’t find a supply of tenerse to ease us. I tore Gibbs’ shack apart but didn’t find his stash of the drug. He had to have had one. I just couldn’t find the fucking stuff!”

  Aingeal’s eyebrows lifted at his anger but she made no comment. She could feel him trembling and knew he was experiencing a great degree of discomfort if not exacting pain.

  “Did I not say we would provide for you, Reaper?”

  The Shadowlord’s voice was an annoyance Cynyr didn’t need at that moment. He ignored the Rysalian and kicked the horse into motion.

  “Stop!”

  The imperious tone made the Reaper saw on the reins, irritated even more when he realized he had hurt Storm’s tender mouth. He apologized to the horse. “What?” he demanded. “Where is it you want me to go?”

  Aingeal could hear the strangely accented voice in her own mind as clearly as though the speaker was at her side. It unnerved her, but she knew it was a member of the High Council speaking and kept silent.

  “Go to the rail station and tell them who you are. They will give you a package.”

  “Fucking bureaucrat,” Cynyr snapped. He looked both ways down the street until he saw what he knew had to be the rail station. He gently kicked Storm into motion.

  Aingeal expected the Shadowlord to reprimand Cynyr but there were no more words from the High Council. She sat on the horse as her husband rudely slammed his fist against the depot master’s door, waking the poor fellow and causing him to commence to stammering and trembling at the sight of a Reaper shoving past him and into the depot office. When Cynyr came stomping back, he was carrying a small box, which he handed to her.